Pietá

Limp in her arms lies her firstborn son. Every breath she takes is a plea for Him to come alive again; her hands ache from the burden of carrying what she has lost. Her mind traces back to when He was first born, when her arms were filled with glory– the Savior of the world held tightly in her grasp.She sat exhausted, covered in blood, sweat, and tears, clutching her baby. She lifted her head and looked around at the crowded stable. Her husband was fast asleep beside her, tired from the journey and the obstacles they faced along the way. The room was quiet and still. The whole world paused for that moment, even the animals bowed down in reverence. She looked down at her baby, and He looked back at her. Through his eyes, she saw His soul.

She remembers the years they spent together. She remembers His first steps and His first words, holding Him in her arms when He couldn’t hold Himself up. She taught Him everything she knew, even when she doubted that her knowledge was enough. She patched every wound from His tiny falls, and when He cried, she kissed away His tears. She watched as He worked in carpentry with His father and cherished every one of His creations.

She witnessed Him change, each feature on His face morphing into maturity. As His voice deepened, so did His wisdom. At last, when He was old enough to go out on his own, she watched Him leave. She stood at her doorway full of pride and a little fear, knowing that her son was destined for something greater than she could ever comprehend. Bits of Him returned in the traveling stories she heard about Him. Strangers spoke in the markets, ladies whispered in the wheat fields, and she made sure to answer every question at family dinners. But it was never the same as when He was with her.

She stands alone in a raging crowd; the air is thick with kicked up Earth. She watched it all. The child she bore– nailed to a cross. Her eyes blinded by tears as His screams ran through the crowd. A voice, once so tender, tears from His throat, His agony ringing in her ears. She can’t stay any longer. Her body shakes uncontrollably, her heart is pierced by the protests. Just when she is about to turn away, the noise stops. The crowd disperses, leaving a path straight to Him. The wounds make Him unrecognizable to outsiders. But for her, His image is engraved in her mind, no matter the circumstance. It’s her son. She runs. She falls to her knees.

Hours pass, but she keeps her eyes on Him, fidgeting at every move and every word He mutters. She can’t patch His wounds and kiss away His tears like she used to, but she will not leave His side in His last moments. She burns with anger as the soldiers cast lots for the clothes she had sewn Him. Eventually, it happens. He takes His final breath. Her son is taken down from the cross. She ponders all of the memories she has of Him in her heart. In her grief, she is proud. He showed her what true belief looks like.

Limp in her arms lies her firstborn son. Pushing the hair off His face, she traces His scars with her fingers. She looks in His eyes, and His soul is no longer there. His gaze lifts, locked on the heavens.